‘Tell me.’
‘The toys of Dionysus, that the Titans lured him away with in order to kill him.’
I didn’t understand what he was saying but I wasn’t going to let him know that. Not just yet.
‘Oh, come off it, Jack. They’re just a kid’s toys; the things he would take with him if he did a runner, small enough to carry in his pockets.’
‘What boy plays with a spinning top these days? And the mirror? Why would a boy want a mirror?’
‘To light a fire.’ I was becoming irritated in my turn. ‘Anyway what mirror? My paper says nothing about a mirror.’
‘The Times does.’
Like most other Americans he still thought of The Times as the custodian of truth and objectivity, a print version of the BBC.
‘Okay. Well even if you’re right I don’t see what it means.’
‘It means, as my Irish grandmother might say: there’s more to this than meets the eye. And they still don’t know how the fire started or whether the child was already dead. What do your legal guys call it: “suspicious circumstances”? I’ll say.’
I wasn’t convinced. I thought he had been wrong about the fire basket and now I thought that in his determination to find a mystery, the classic ‘ritual uses’ of a certain school of archaeology, he was way off the mark, seeing conspiracy in a simple runaway. But I knew it was no good arguing. Maybe all those years digging in the sun had affected him or too long among the mysterious alphabets and symbols of ancient beliefs. We agreed to meet soon and keep each other up to date with anything we might find out.
‘No sign of our missing objects?’ I asked before putting the receiver down.
‘Not a whisper. But it’s early days, though I have to warn you the recovery rate for such things is minimal. But I expect the police have already told you that. The literally thousands of artefacts from the Baghdad museum that went awol after the war have never surfaced. Virtually a whole civilisation gone into oblivion along with the rape of dozens of archaeological sites, places I worked in, torn apart. A monument to human folly.
‘“Look on my works ye mighty and despair,” as the poet said.’
He had lost me again but once more I didn’t say so. I wasn’t sure what I felt, when the papers were full of the dead and maimed, about the loss of inanimate stone, crystal, gold, pots and weapons, things that don’t bleed. Or so I thought.
‘I’m worried about Jack.’ Hilary and I were having a quick drink in the Pier Hotel, to give me some Dutch courage before I took her home to meet Caesar. ‘He’s making what I think are very tenuous connections and then jumping to rather bizarre conclusions.’
‘How do you mean?’ We were fighting our way through a disgustingly typical pub lunch of soggy jacket potato over-stuffed with cheddar and coleslaw.
‘I’m sorry about the food.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. At least this is hot.’
The day was bitterly cold with an arctic wind off the sea that the forecast had warned might bring flurries of snow. ‘He thought the lamp you restored from the grave was like some ancient fire altar. That was the first odd thing. Then he thought the toys that were found with the boy’s body after the pier fire were the toys of Dionysus. I think that’s what he said. He’s seeing mysteries everywhere and if he starts saying so in public, or to the press, we’ll have hordes of nutters converging on the town.’
‘I’d like to have a quick look at the pier before we go to your house,’ Hilary said tactfully. ‘Would that be a nuisance?’
So I found myself back at the cordoned-off entrance, only there were no police on duty now. Instead, flowers and offerings of toys had been heaped up by the barrier.
‘We never used to do this sort of thing.’ Even to myself I sounded like a grumpy old fogey.
‘Maybe we didn’t need to; there were other ways to express a feeling of community. I remember my mother saying that when she was young if somebody in the street had died everyone drew their curtains or blinds at the time of the funeral as a mark of respect.’
‘Straw up stret,’ I said. ‘In Victorian times the cobbles under the horses’ hooves were muffled with a layer of straw for a funeral.’ I was glad to be able to contribute a bit of information from my own specialism but I didn’t know why I had to keep my end up among these experts on ancient civilisations, and felt shut out of the camaraderie there seemed to be between Jack and Hilary. Somehow they made my own work seem frivolous, irrelevant.
‘Look,’ Hilary said pointing to a group of toys on their own apart from the flowers, plastic soldiers and racing cars. ‘Aren’t those the things that were described in the newspaper? You would have thought that the police would have wanted to hold on to them for forensic tests.’
‘Surely those are new,’ I said going closer. ‘They’re not burnt or damaged as they would be if they were the originals.’
‘I suppose somebody thought it would be comforting for the boy’s spirit.’
‘But what’s that in the middle, that rod that has a skein of wool round it and something stuck on the top?’
‘It’s a whole fennel,’ Hilary said. ‘Now that really is weird. It reminds me of a Halloween pumpkin head on a pole with a face cut in it.’
‘No doubt Jack could give us an equally weird explanation.’
‘Perhaps we should ask him. Can you remember all the things in this group?’ She looked up at me. Her face was pinched and she shivered slightly.
‘Come on. Let me take you to my house and warm you up.’ I took her arm and turned away from the pier. Caesar behaved impeccably, allowing himself to be stroked, and brushing his black sinuous length against her legs as she sat on the sofa. I had gone to town on a choice of tea and a lemon drizzle cake from the local organic shop. I wished the fire was a real one but the mock logs glowed with their electric flicker and their emanation of convenience comfort.
‘Goodbye Caesar,’ Hilary said as she got up to leave. He stared up at her from his cushion in front of the fire, with wide amber eyes, and purred gently. ‘I can’t have a cat in my block of flats. But pets are supposed to be good for you, calming.’
‘Caesar says you can come and stroke him any time.’
Hilary opened the passenger door when we reached the station car park. I got out too and locked up. ‘It’s alright, Alex. I can find my way to the right platform,’ she laughed.
I came round to her side of the Volkswagen to where she was standing in the light of a street lamp. Suddenly, without thinking, I leant forward and kissed her mouth. She put up a hand to touch the side of my face. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never do that.’ We kissed again.
‘I’ll ring you later to make sure you’re safely home.’
Back in my own home, with Caesar out for a post-prandial prowl of the neighbouring gardens, and a whisky and dry ginger satisfyingly within reach, I began to think about the toys we had seen. Hilary’s explanation of a benign wish to comfort a dead boy’s spirit seemed too kindly a theory. Jack Linden was the obvious person to ask but I was afraid he would only jump to some bizarre conclusion again and we would be back in the morass of sinister ancient rituals that I found completely out of place in our cosy seaside, suburban context.
Ringing Hilary as I had promised (or was it threatened?) when I thought she must have made it home, I asked: ‘Do you think we should tell anyone about those toys?’
‘What could we say? That we thought they were rather peculiar? Wouldn’t people think we were, peculiar, I mean? And who would we tell? The police? Jack might have some thoughts but I imagine you must have already discarded that idea. I think we just have to wait and see.’
‘I was thinking of the last time we did that. It nearly cost me my job. Will have, even now, if the hearing goes against me. But then I think of my chairman’s face if I tried to involve him in some tale of mysterious rituals. He’d probably have me sectioned not just sacked. So I guess you’re right. We’ll have to wait and see.’
By t
he time the phone rang again the next morning, I had firmly convinced myself that silence was our best course. It was Jack.
‘Well?’
‘What’s up, Jack?’
‘The toys.’
‘What about them?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You must have seen them too.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That there were more toys of Dionysus.’
I gave in. ‘How did you find out?’
He laughed. ‘I spotted them in a newspaper photograph. The little group on its own, with that grotesque attempt at a narthex and bull-roarer so I came down early to take a look.’
‘A what?’
‘A narthex. The fennel head on a stick as carried by the priests of Dionysus and, even earlier, Ahura Mazda.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘The bull-roarer. Quite a clever substitute: a football rattle. Same principle: whirling something round to make a loud noise. Lots of cults have used those, from every part of the world: Australia, Africa, Greece.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘We have a trickster who knows what he’s doing.’
‘But what’s it all for?’
‘Somebody either likes to play games or, kindest interpretation, to join in mourning for a child. Maybe a modern day Orphic. Some sort of religious freak.’
‘What do you think we should do? Hilary and I wondered whether we should tell anyone.’
‘I don’t think there’s enough, or rather anything concrete, to tell anyone else without being suspected of being a freak oneself.’
‘That’s what we decided.’
‘We have to wait and see. If it’s not just a harmless bit of whimsy something will turn up that will tell us more. Or the whole thing will just fade away. Anyway I’m still on your patch, in a pub on the sea front. Very chilly it all looks too. Why don’t you join me? Then you can show me the original site where the grave was found.’
My case was due to be heard at the end of the week.
‘Do I have to attend?’ I asked my union representative.
‘Not necessary. We’ll be arguing on technicalities and legalities. How probable is it that you could anticipate those bits being stolen when the rest of the stuff had been sitting there safely in their glass cases for a couple of days? The police found evidence of a forced entry by an upper skylight. A professional job that was aborted for some reason after the burglar had only had time to tackle that one case. We’ve got your statement, yours and the other members of staff. There’s no question of anyone inside being involved, least of all you. I’m totally confident. The only question is: do you want reinstatement or compensation?’
‘Reinstatement,’ I said without thinking and then wondered if that was true. But anyway it was too late to go back on it.
In spite of his reassurances I spent a nervous morning. At 12.30 the telephone rang. ‘We’ve just broken. I think the chairman wanted his lunch. You’re back!’
‘When can I go in?’
‘Tomorrow if you like. Or you can have a week to sort your affairs. Not culpable. Recommendation to upgrade security which means the council will have to spend some money. Cheers.’ And he was off.
It was strange to be walking in through the door of the museum the next morning.
‘Oh, Mr Kish,’ Phoebe hurried towards me, ‘we’re all so glad to see you back. I’ve put a little plant pot on your desk as a welcome.’
I managed to thank her and say yes it was nice for me too, surprised at the threat of tears that sprang up in my throat and behind my eyes. A few early miniature daffodils lit up the December gloom of my office. Or were they narcissi. And what had I read somewhere about Narcissus? I took down the Encyclopaedia of Myth and Legend I had bought when all this first began. And then I put it back. I wouldn’t look him up. I’d been too much alone all these weeks, thinking, brooding. Now I had to get stuck in to something practical. Soon the chairman was on the line.
‘Good to have you back. You do understand we had to go through the accepted procedures. I’ll be in touch about the security upgrade.’
Silently I thought that now there was nothing worth stealing. Perhaps I should have opted for compensation, taken the money and run. But, when I asked her, Hilary was adamant that for the sake of the future I had to take up my old job again. If I were unemployed I would be looked at suspiciously every time I went after something new, and how long until the compensation ran out? To become a teacher I’d need at least a year’s retraining with no guarantee of an easier job at the end of it. More like a mob of ungovernable teenagers on the most run-down estate in Barking.
Post had continued to come in while I’d been away. Some of it Lisa had dealt with but there was a little stack of unopened envelopes. I began to go through them, tossing some of the contents into the shredder and putting others aside. Hilary rang in the middle of it.
‘How does it feel to be back?’
‘Strange. But I suppose I’ll get used to it. Do you fancy an official junket?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘We’re unveiling the first piece of town sculpture since that of Queen Victoria for her Golden Jubilee. The mayor’s going to pull the cord that opens the curtains or whatever and then there’s a civic reception. I ought to show my face to prove I’m not still in the doghouse but it would be a lot easier if you were with me.’
‘Of course I’ll come if I can. When is it?’
‘That’s the snag. It’s very early in the morning for some reason, sunrise on midwinter day, the shortest day – however you care to think of it.’ I hesitated. ‘I wondered if you’d like to stay the night before. At my place I mean.’
I heard her pause before answering and I could imagine her straight look as she said very steadily: ‘I don’t think we’re quite ready for that, Alex. You don’t really know very much about me yet. Anyway the sun doesn’t get up until about eight. There are plenty of early trains.’
I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. ‘Okay. I can pick you up at the station at about 7.15. That should give us time to get to Canvey Point where the ceremony is. I hope you can spend the rest of the day with me.’
‘I’ll take one of my days off. I’ve got some in hand.’
When I got in that evening Caesar was waiting for me to open the tin of cat food at once and fork the unappealing brown mess into his dish. He had got used to having me around all day and wasn’t pleased with the resumption of my old routine. I felt curiously drained. It had been hard work pretending everything was back to normal, as if I had never been away. Lethargically I checked the television schedules to see if there was anything that caught my eye. As I flipped from channel to channel I was suddenly transfixed by a programme on BBC4. A concert of words and music from St John’s Smith Square in London for St Lucy’s Day. I hadn’t even known there was a St Lucy. I found the weekly magazine guide and began to read the accompanying puff. The concert was in aid of the partially sighted because her name meant light or, more grisly thought, she had torn out her eyes rather than be forced into marriage, like the beautiful Asian girls one sometimes saw in newspaper photographs who killed themselves to avoid unknown bridegrooms chosen by their parents.
Wordsworth’s Lucy Poems, it said, in a new setting.
She lived unknown and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh
The difference to me!
It could have been an epitaph for my own Lucy. And suddenly I was choking on a great sob for all the unknown lives gone into their graves, and a rush of guilt that I hadn’t loved her enough, known what she wanted, saw into what we call the heart, given her more of myself. It was as if all my life I’d been frozen inside and that when she died that coldness had become a rigid block of ice that was only now beginning to crack under some unacknowledged strain. Or could it be a new warmth? Caesar rubbed himself against my legs and sat down to wash the traces of dinner
from around his muzzle with a delicate questing paw, and looking down at his vulnerability, I felt a new sob rising. He trusted me and I could crush him with a blow. Had my coldness crushed Lucy? We had never discussed how we felt about each other or about much else except our relative jobs and colleagues and the daily practicalities of our lives. From time to time I had gone off with a map on a cycling tour while she in turn had gone to visit her aging parents in Ipswich. Sometimes we took a walking week in the Lake District or Scotland. Was I weeping internally for her or for myself? Or for both of us? There was a blindness of the heart that Lucy hadn’t been able to cure even if she had tried. And that itself held a question I couldn’t answer. No wonder Hilary had sensed that I wasn’t ready for intimacy, that like Kay in the faery story I still had a splinter of ice in my heart.
Would I have gone down into the dark to bring back my lost wife like Orpheus? Even with a magic harp, lute or Papageno’s pipes that could neutralise death? Could I ever love anyone enough? Could they love me enough to follow me up into the light? Or would my doubts always cause me to look back and push them down into the shadows again while I went on alone, to be torn to bits by the very emotions I’d suppressed?
It was still pitch black when I picked Hilary up at Southend Station. She kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘What a time to hold a junket. It had better be spectacular.’
‘Thank you for coming. I’m rather dreading the whole thing and very relieved not to be responsible for any of it. I hope you’re well wrapped up. We have to stand around waiting for the sunrise or something. Then it’s champagne breakfast in a marquee.’
As we drove along the promenade against the morning rush hour traffic, a smear of grey began to show itself out over the sea.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ Hilary asked.
‘Canvey Point, the tip of the island, only of course it isn’t an island, only a promontory. We’re just crossing over Leigh Beck. If it was light enough you could see Hadleigh Castle. Now we’ve turned back towards the sea.’ Lights appeared ahead, leading forward to a car park where we were beckoned on by an attendant and waved into a space. Doors slammed as people spilled out, pulling on gloves and huddling down inside their coat collars. A sign pointed us towards the exhibition. We breasted a sand dune and came to a halt on a natural rise from the shore that provided a perfect raked theatre before the estuary mudflats, that now began to gleam here and there as the misty grey light was caught on the surface of little rock pools. Suddenly the sky was washed blue with small clouds floating in it that began to blush an almost indecent pink. Against this theatrical backdrop we could see a tall structure raised on a plinth and obscured by a dark curtain. The light was turning golden, the pink and blue being driven out. Beyond the tall mysterious shape the sea still showed a flat gunmetal grey, quite still, as if the tide was held on a cusp between ebb and flow.
The Orpheus Trail Page 5